


Five Conditions

by delabaissé (missyay)



Series: For the Better [4]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2013-10-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 21:18:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/828993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missyay/pseuds/delabaiss%C3%A9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire keeps flirting with Enjolras in the most blatant fashion, until Enjolras decides to take him up on his offer. But he sets a few conditions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first chapter of a modern AU I’ve been writing in my head for the past few days. It’s unbetaed, and English is my second language, but this wouldn’t go away until I wrote it, so here goes:

Enjolras doesn’t spend a lot of time thinking about sex. But he does, occasionally, wonder what it must be like. Especially since Grantaire started showing up at the meetings – not because he likes Grantaire, but because Grantaire keeps _offering,_ and in no uncertain terms.

Bahorel brought him in one day and declared him to be “my lord and saviour”. Since then, Grantaire hasn’t done a thing for the group. Enjolras has tried assigning him tasks, but he’s unreliable, unfailingly turning up empty-handed the next meeting. To their group, he’s of less use than an eight-year-old – literally, because Gavroche has proven to be worth his weight in gold more than once, and Grantaire never so much as moves a finger for them.

Enjolras didn’t expect him to come back, but he always does, throwing in sarcasting remarks, questioning their strategies and leering at Enjolras. Well, not exactly _leering_ : his expression always softens when he looks at Enjolras. It’s the only thing that keeps him from throwing the drunkard out, to be honest. That, and Bahorel can be absolutely _terrifying_ when you insult his friends.

Today, Grantaire has flopped down on the sofa and opened neither mouth nor eyes for the whole meeting. Which Enjolras is thankful for, since Marius decided to be irritating today and the last thing Enjolras needs is a Grantaire drunkenly agreeing with him.

“I need a definitive answer _now._ Can we count on you?”

Marius doesn’t meet his gaze. “I’m sorry, I can’t. I’ve got a date.”

“You mean you don’t have anything yet, but if Cosette gives in you’ll prefer going out with her to sticking with us,” Enjolras corrects him, annoyed to the very tips of his toes. “Jesus, Marius, there are more important things at stake than your girl!”

“What do you want me to say? You wanted a definitive answer! I’ll come with you if it doesn’t work out, that’s all I can say.” Marius looks determined, now, and Enjolras knows a lost case when he sees one. So he just declares the meeting to be over and glares everyone out of the room, until it’s just the two of them – Grantaire remains unfazed because he kept his eyes firmly closed throughout the glaring process.

Enjolras shuffles his papers around for a bit, hoping to get Grantaire to leave and give him a bit of time alone with the back room of the Musain.

But all Grantaire does is stretch, his sweatshirt rucking up in the process, one bare foot dangling off the sofa’s side. Enjolras looks at his hip, exposed in a streak of sunlight, where the toffee coloured skin stretches over the bone and then forms a slight curve, before it dips into his navel.

“For what it’s worth, you should give it a shot,” Grantaire says sleepily, without opening his eyes. “Then maybe you’d see how it can keep someone away from one of your precious demonstrations.”

“Dating?” Enjolras asks incredulously. “Yeah, no.”

“Sex,” Grantaire replies, opening his eyes to look up at him. “I’d volunteer to show you the benefits, you know.” He wiggles his eyebrows.

The funny thing is that Enjolras has been considering it for a while.

He missed the point where everyone started having sex since it coincided with the time he was raising a massive wall of indifference, and now he doesn’t want to embarrass himself by admitting to his inexperience. But if there’s one person in whose presence he refuses to be embarrassed, it’s Grantaire.

Grantaire, who looks at him with such admiration, who has never once tried to touch him despite his vicious flirting, who respects his personal space. As unfaltering pursuers go, he’s quite harmless, really.

“Alright,” Enjolras says.

For a moment, Grantaire is dumbstruck. Like a dog who, incredibly, managed to get hold of the car he was chasing, and now doesn’t know what to do with it.

It doesn’t last very long, though, and the smile that spreads across Grantaire’s face afterwards shows more teeth than should be in his mouth, Enjolras is sure.

“Under five conditions”, Enjolras adds, holding up a hand, and the smile falters a bit, but Grantaire waves his hands for him to continue.

Enjolras folds in one finger. “Not one word to the others,” he says. Grantaire nods, and Enjolras continues, “If this goes awry, we won’t speak about it again. Ever.”

Grantaire cuts in, “hang on a tick. I’m taking notes.” He actually takes a little notebook out of the pocket of his sweater, jotting down the points with a piece of charcoal.

“We meet up tomorrow, and I want you to be sober,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire pulls a face. “And for God’s sake, stop hijacking our meetings!”

“I do not-“

“You do. And I want you to stop doing it.”

When Enjolras shrugs on his jacket without another word, Grantaire asks, “What’s the fifth one?”

Enjolras hasn’t expected him to listen that attentively.

“No stupid nicknames”, he says over his shoulder. Grantaire yells after him: “I don’t even know your real name!”

“Enjolras”, he says, turning back to him.

“First name. I refuse to sleep with someone without being on first name basis with them.”

“It’s the only one I’ve got”, Enjolras says.

“You don’t have a first name?”

“I do, but we don’t use it. It’s not up for discussion.”

“So I’m, what, supposed to scream your last name in bed?”

“I don’t expect you to scream at all,” Enjolras says indignantly, and shuts the door between them.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first nsfw thing I've ever written, so... be warned? And if you find any mistakes, please tell me so I can fix them.

The door is opened as soon as Enjolras rings the bell. He climbs up the stairs and finds Grantaire standing in the doorway to his flat, feet bare as usual, wearing soft, wide trousers, a thin tee shirt, and a flickering smile. He gestures into the open door, so Enjolras walks past him, smelling soap and mint and no alcohol. He means to smile at Grantaire to show that he's noticed, but Grantaire has turned away from him to close the door.

“Hey,” he manages, “welcome.” 

Enjolras looks around. Grantaire’s flat is a tiny thing, but it features a kingsize bed and a huge, unpainted canvas in the middle of its only room. It’s spotless, and Enjolras has to suppress a smile because Grantaire doesn’t strike him as a cleanly sort of person, which means it’s probably all for him.

“Can’t have you have your first time in a less than pleasant environment, can we?” Grantaire comments his look around, and Enjolras nods.

“So," Grantaire says, hovering on the threshold to the kitchenette, "Do you want something? Coffee, tea?”

To be completely honest, Enjolras would rather they’d just go on with it, but he takes the tea anyway (Grantaire follows the instructions on the teabag to the second, which is endearing and unsettling at the same time) and sips it while Grantaire gulps down his coffee. His hands are trembling, Enjolras notes, and hopes it’s out of nervousness rather than addiction. Because it’s been one day, and not even Grantaire should be that much of a wreck.

He looks around in search of something to talk about. Enjolras never talks to Grantaire, except when it's necessary - not out of spite but practicality: Grantaire tends to verbally tear anything and everything that has ever been important to him to shreds, and Enjolras doesn't take to that terribly well. Grantaire's subjects, on the other hand, hold little to no importance for Enjolras, which means he doesn't have enough information on them to last even a short conversation. So he finds himself trying to make small talk instead.

“I didn’t know you painted,” he says, pointing to the canvas.

“I don’t. At the moment. I’ve got a block. Art student with a block”, Grantaire answers, tugging his hands through his hair, “though I could paint _you_ ,” he adds, a grin starting to tug at the corners of his mouth, "if you'd let me."

Enjolras nods absently, thinking _that would be just the perfect alibi_ , because he’s pragmatic like that. “Anything else you do?” he asks, because there has _got_ to be something that keeps Grantaire alive, some deeper passion, some motive, some goal.

But Grantaire shakes his head. “I did a bit of ballet and kickboxing back when my parents would pay for it, but you know how it goes,” he doesn’t sound too upset about it, but then Grantaire never does, shrugging his way through life and expecting nothing and especially nothing good to come of it.

It explains the casual grace of his movements when he’s not drunk, his wiry strength, his balance. Enjolras quirks up a corner of his mouth at the memory of Grantaire sleeping on the backrest of the sofa, defying every physical law Enjolras has ever known.

But then, he’s never been one for physics.

“Anything _you_ do, apart from trying to save the world?” Grantaire watches him over his empty mug, as he often does, drinking in Enjolras’ expressions and words.

Enjolras smiles a tight little smile, as he always does when Grantaire belittles his ambitions. “It’s a full time job,” he says, “There’s not a lot of time left, with the studying and all.”

“What do you study?”

Grantaire probably wants to sound like he hasn’t been cyber stalking him, so Enjolras decides to humour him and says “history,” emptying his cup and putting it on the table with a final thud. He doesn't want to discuss history. It's important to him, and therefore Grantaire, by default, must think it ridiculously boring.

He doesn't discuss, though. He just smiles up at him expectantly, and Enjolras raises an eyebrow. Grantaire may be ugly, monstrous nose and scars and everything, but there’s nothing repulsive about it, and with a smile like this he just looks young.

Grantaire clears his throat and stands. "Should we," he vaguely points in the direction of his bed, which Enjolras takes as a cue to get headed in that direction, kicking his shoes off on the way.

The bed squeaks a little when he sits down on the mattress, eliciting an apologetic shrug from Grantaire.

“I’ve been guessing before,” he says casually, sitting down next to him, “but I’m curious. What’s your state of affairs, sex-experience-wise?”

Enjolras purses his lips and imitates a peck. (Though he isn’t quite sure that even _counts_ , since it was Courfeyrac, who kisses everything that moves (or doesn’t, because Enjolras _did_ try freezing on the spot)). Grantaire’s eyes go wide. “You managed to avoid _snogging?”_ he asks, disbelieving. “How the hell did you do that? The queue must’ve been _huge._ ”

“I didn’t go to parties,” Enjolras offers, but it’s more than that. He has a habit of avoiding eye-contact with people who show any interest in him. It makes him come across as aloof and arrogant and out-of-your-league, and he’s never tried to change that.

“Well, how about we start with that, then?” Grantaire asks, hands clenching and unclenching restlessly, and Enjolras nods.

It’s funny, because Grantaire sounds nervous and Enjolras isn’t: There’s nothing there, just quiet expectance. Grantaire cares more about this being his first kiss than Enjolras does.

He swings one knee over Enjolras’ legs so he’s straddling him and places his hands firmly on Enjolras’ shoulders. Enjolras could count the hairs of his stubble if he tried; he can’t help but think _you’re not supposed to be this close to someone you don’t care about_ , when Grantaire leans in.

His lips are dry and chapped, and when he tilts his head and opens them just the slightest bit, Enjolras follows suit.

There’s no thrill to it, because this is just Grantaire, and nothing has been required of Enjolras but a calm “Alright” on his part, but it’s nice, he supposes. There’s a hint of tongue flicking against his lower lip, wet and strange, but when Enjolras mimics the motion it makes Grantaire’s breath speed up. Enjolras smirks against his lips, burying a hand in his thick black curls, because it seems the thing to do.

And before he knows it, they are _snogging_ , Grantaire pushes him over until he lies on his back, just to follow him and place an open-mouthed kiss on his neck before returning to his mouth. It’s worship, nothing else, the way Grantaire comes away breathless and amazed, while Enjolras remains almost completely unfazed.

He had expected the background noises to fade out, but they don’t: He hears the rustling sheets and the squeaking of the bed and the ticking of a clock somewhere as clearly as the ragged sound of Grantaire’s breath and the small sounds their mouths make when they come apart.

He decides that he likes making out, though, so he turns them around until he’s on top and goes in for another kiss.

Grantaire’s hands sneak under his shirt, and Enjolras likes them there: the calloused fingertips just on that side of tickling; and as Grantaire aims his kisses at his jaw and neck rather than lips there’s just enough incoming sensation to not overwhelm him. Enjolras hums his appreciation, and Grantaire laughs.

“The first sound you’ve made, and it’s a _hum_ ”, he observes. “Are you always this quiet, on your own?”

“We had thin walls,” Enjolras counters, but that’s not it – he just doesn’t feel the need to moan or gasp or whatever it is you do. It feels as pointless a thing to do as screaming for help in a situation you know to be less than threatening. Grantaire accepts it as a given, just says, “Just tell me if I’m making you uncomfortable”, and goes back to devouring him whole, if you go by the look on his face.

He tugs at the hem of Enjolras’ shirt; Enjolras takes it as a request to pull it off. A sharp intake of breath has him look up at Grantaire, who looks speechless for a moment. It doesn’t last very long, though, because he seems to have decided to take what he can get, trailing kisses down his chest until he reaches his hipbones, and coming up again with a delighted grin.

Enjolras lifts Grantaire’s shirt up in turn, and Grantaire raises his hands obediently to let Enjolras undress him.

Grantaire’s skin is just dark enough for him to be seen as a native in a maximum number of countries, and he’s thin as a rake. Enjolras reaches out a hand to touch the skin just next to his navel, and is surprised at the warmth for some reason. As if he hadn’t expected Grantaire to actually be a living person. Grantaire leans into the touch, and Enjolras pulls him closer.

Grantaire dips his tongue past Enjolras’ parted lips briefly, his hand resting just above the waistband of Enjolras’ trousers. A “May I” ghosts over his lips, and Enjolras almost smiles, because Grantaire’s still asking for permission, and nods.

Grantaire unbuttons and unzips his trousers, and tugs at them until Enjolras lifts his hips to help him. His underwear comes off with them, leaving him feeling slightly exposed. Grantaire is still wearing his trousers, but Enjolras doesn’t ask him to undress. Doesn’t want him to.

Grantaire turns to take something out of the bedside table drawer, and Enjolras admires the curve of his spine until he comes back up and twists the cap off a tube.

Enjolras shifts and eyes the tube uneasily, catching Grantaire’s eye.

“No no,” Grantaire rushes to explain, “Don’t worry, I’m not planning to fuck you. Handjobs are just a lot nicer with lube I think? Though you might disagree. Just tell me if you don’t like it.”

Enjolras doesn’t not like it, he finds. When Grantaire touches him with slick fingers he’s warmed up for him beforehand, he throws his head back in a first involuntary movement and lets out a breath that _might_ resemble a gasp.

Grantaire’s grin is wicked as he closes his hand around him, and he rises to his knees so that he’s kneeling over Enjolras, his right hand ghosting over his chest as if indecisive about where to settle down.

The slick sounds that Grantaire’s hands produce in movement are positively _obscene_ , but Enjolras finds that he doesn’t mind enough to want them to stop.

He pushes up into Grantaire’s hand, once, because he wants him to go faster, and Grantaire obliges. The thumb of his right hand comes to rest on Enjolras’ Adam’s apple, and Enjolras finds that he likes the pressure, so he raises his chin to provide more space and – _oh_ he really likes it: Grantaire’s palm flat against his throat, unmoving, an unspoken threat, and of course Enjolras would like that. Of course. He hums again, feeling the vibration of his throat move on to Grantaire’s fingertips. He tugs Grantaire down for another kiss, this one more restless, with more tongue and desperation on Grantaire’s part and less coordination on Enjolras’.

Enjolras feels his climax approaching, uncurling, and finally washing over him, and he sighs into Grantaire’s mouth.

He closes his eyes for a moment, until Grantaire hands him a wet towel and murmurs “I’ll be a minute” before disappearing into the bathroom.

And of course, his phone chooses that minute to ring.

Enjolras picks up. “Yes?”

“I may need a little help if you want that speech thing ready first thing tomorrow, boss”, Courfeyrac announces cheerfully.

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Are you at your flat? I’ll come over in a few.” Courfeyrac’s place isn’t too far from Grantaire’s, and Enjolras doesn’t exactly feel like walking at the moment.

Grantaire pops his head in, and Enjolras waves his hand apologetically. He comes in, still wearing nothing but his trousers, looking flushed and slightly flustered.

“I can head over to the Musain if that’s less trouble,” Courfeyrac offers.

“Don’t bother. Your flat is a shorter way for both of us,” Enjolras answers, and hangs up.

“Courfeyrac,” he explains while putting on his clothes, “needs a bit of help, apparently. Sorry.”

He doesn’t mean it, but Grantaire accepts it nonetheless. “Was it okay, though?” he asks.

“It was. Not a fireworks display, but nice”, Enjolras answers, one corner of his mouth quirked up.

“To tell you a secret,” Grantaire admits, “most first times aren’t. It takes a bit of time to grow comfortable. Don’t give up on it, alright?”

“I wasn’t planning to.” Enjolras rests a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder for a second before closing the door between them once more.


	3. Chapter 3

Courfeyrac greets him with the usual hug, pressing a clean-shaven cheek to his, before guiding him to his room.

They pass the kitchen that contains an absentminded Marius motionlessly staring at his phone (Enjolras glares at him in passing, but he doesn’t seem to notice) and Courfeyrac snickers, shoving at Enjolras. “It’s no use, you know. He’s absolutely helpless.”

Enjolras curls his lips in distaste.

“So,” he says, changing the topic as he sits down on Courfeyrac’s sofa, “What is it about the speech that requires me to assist you?”

It’s a small discussion round on gay adoption rights Courfeyrac has been invited to because he’s an up- and-coming comedian known for his liberal views, but it’s their first TV appearance, so naturally they're a little overexcited about the whole thing.

Enjolras knows that Courfeyrac is more than capable of writing the opening statement himself: the man has a feeling for the amount of cutting sarcasm he can get away with, he knows how much humour to throw in in order to still get the point across, how to truly captivate a skeptic audience.

“Well, we both know I got invited to ease the discussion, make some jokes, dissolve the tension, all that, yeah?” Enjolras nods. Courfeyrac, as a comedian, keeps his political views to a minimum in his shows: maybe a snide remark here and there, a few jabs to make sure they know what he thinks about it, but never anything compelling or missionary.

“And I fully intend to do that. But at the same time, I want to show them I’ve _got a lot to say_ about this, that it’s an issue that’s very important to me, and so. I thought, basically what I needed was a combination of the two of us, right?” Courfeyrac hands him a few sheets of paper and a red pen. “So I thought having you look over this and add the things you thought are most important would probably work.”

Enjolras takes the speech and the pen and feels like saying something very _very_ stupid, but he doesn’t. He just smiles at Courfeyrac and hopes it gets his point across: that he loves them for loving what they do, for actually taking an interest in what must seem to some people like petty issues unworthy of discussion, for _taking his side_. He has never felt less misunderstood in his life.

Between the two of them, they finish the speech in what feels like no time at all. Enjolras’ ideas are taken up by Courfeyrac, softened at the edges, turned into side blows that are hard to reply to. Courfeyrac’s jokes are sharpened, gain an edge to them; Enjolras gives them precision and gets rid of their vagueness. When they’re done, the sheets are covered in red and Enjolras feels like bursting with delight. This is a _masterpiece._

He is about to tell him just that when Courfeyrac, with a gleeful grin, looks up from the speech and says, “So… Where have you been that made it easier to come over to me than go to the Musain? Could it be that you finally found yourself someone to keep?”

It sounds like he’s been holding onto the question for the whole meeting. It sure as hell is the question Enjolras was hoping to escape.

“No, I was at Grantaire’s,” he says, rolling his eyes. “We made a bargain. He doesn’t disrupt our meetings if I pose for him every now and again.”

Courfeyrac’s look of surprise quickly dissolves in a wiggle of his eyebrows. “Uh huh,” he says, “can I ask how much clothing the posing involves?”

Enjolras raises one eyebrow and one corner of his mouth. “Enough,” he says wryly. “You should ask about what _sort_ , though, since he’s insisting on painting me as Jesus…”

Just because he hates dishonesty doesn’t mean he doesn’t master it. It’s often enough necessary to convince people.

Courfeyrac, though, has some sort of alarm when it comes to his friends and lying; Enjolras can practically _hear_ it go off when the playful grin falters and Courfeyrac draws his brows together for a disbelieving frown.

Enjolras watches him work it out, expecting his face to twist into a huge smile like it does whenever he hears about one of their various Amis-internal entanglements, but it doesn’t: Courfeyrac, for a split second, looks concerned and sympathetic before his expression becomes entirely unreadable.

It makes no sense, because if there’s someone on this earth who doesn’t run the risk of having his heart broken, it’s Enjolras: Surely, Courfeyrac would know that, as the most empathetic out of all of them?

It’s only when Courfeyrac says “Is that so,” in a voice neutral enough to, coming from him, seem cold, that he realises: it’s not him Courfeyrac is concerned about.

Which, really.

Grantaire is old enough to look after himself. He’s doing a shitty job of it, granted, but it’s not like Enjolras has been very adamant or even convincing. He has only taken him up on his own offer.

He frowns right back at Courfeyrac. “What is it?” he asks, “something I said?”

“Something you did,” Courfeyrac replies sternly.

Enjolras decides to play dumb: anything to keep Courfeyrac from having proof. Unfounded rumors he can stomach, but he’s not overly keen to have all of his friends know about his affair.

If you can call it that.

It might cost him, make him look weak where he needs to be seen as swift and unforgiving, it might be a base for ridicule, and he can’t afford that.

Besides, Grantaire is not the kind of person he’d like to be associated with. He's not the kind of person you're proud about sleeping with.

So he asks, “Posing for Grantaire? Look, I just want him gone, alright, and I asked him to and he offered a deal. It’s not like I’m using him, if anything, it’s the other way around!”

Courfeyrac laughs at him, disbelief still visible in the way he refuses to meet Enjolras’ eyes, but less prominent now. “Oh yes, poor helpless Enjolras, used and dragged around by the frightful Grantaire!”

Enjolras joins in, putting a hand on Courfeyrac’s shoulder carefully to test the degree of his irritation. Courfeyrac immediately covers it with his own; it’s a reflex of his: rewarding closeness.

Courfeyrac is remarkably fond of physical contact, and Enjolras finds himself taking delight in the small touches he has to offer, because they speak so much louder than words.

Enjolras has never been one to provide, or even encourage, physical affection, but when it’s offered to him, he takes it gladly.

The doubt almost entirely extinguished, Courfeyrac proceeds to squeeze his hand and release it before picking up the speech and carrying it over to his desk.

“I am pretty sure this will stir people,” he says, smiling his most brilliant smile, “Once you’ve made it to TV, it’s just a matter of time, let me tell you.”

Enjolras very much wants to show him his gratitude, but only ends up saying, “I’m sure you’ll be brilliant. I’m counting on you.”

But here’s the good thing about Courfeyrac: He hears what Enjolras meant as well as what he said, gathers him in another bone-crushing hug and mumbles a “Thank you” into his hair.

On his way home, Enjolras sends a text to Grantaire that says, _If anyone asks, we made a deal that involves me posing for you and you shutting up at our meetings._

 _Only if I actually get to paint you,_ is Grantaire’s reply. Enjolras sighs.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: mention of paedophilia

They work out a routine pretty quickly: Enjolras will text him, _sober tomorrow?_ and Grantaire replies with _yes_ or, very rarely, _no._ The next day, Enjolras will take some notes or a book with him, drive over to Grantaire’s, where there’s sex if they feel like it, or else Enjolras just takes out his notes or book and starts reading while Grantaire paints him.

It works, because they both avoid the sore subjects. Enjolras finds it to be relaxing, mostly, to do something he’s not passionate about for a change, idly chatting to Grantaire over a cup of tea in the afternoon or listening to him blather about celebrities (and forgetting everything in the same minute) while his pen ceaselessly moves on the canvas. And the sex. He feels like he shouldn’t mention it to Grantaire, though, that he’s less than passionate about the sex; he might feel insulted.

It actually is calming, though. It pushes the cold, raging fury of his mind further into the background and gives him something close enough to a break from himself, and so he keeps on sending those texts, irregularly, but never more often than once a week. (It’s a limit he’s set for himself.)

*

“Whatever you prefer for yourself is fine by me, but I'm not going to have you call me by my surname in bed. Say Georges or don't say anything,” Grantaire tells him eventually. “I mean I like my last name and I don't mind being called Grantaire in general, but it's also the name of my parents and I'd like to keep them out of my sex life as far as possible."

Huh. Enjolras hadn’t thought about it that way.

He tries avoiding names entirely for a while, but gives up on it soon. He tries the name out at home before using it on Grantaire, like he would an article of clothing he wants to be convincing – _Georges, Georges –_ and it sounds soft and pleading and just a hint too familiar.

After that, he uses it in bed, but only ever there.

*

Grantaire is practicing ‘unusual poses’ today, which is why Enjolras is sprawled on the floor, with a bible and his notes spread out in front of him.

“What are you doing?” Grantaire asks from behind his canvas, the scratching of his charcoal on the fabric stopping for a second.

“Writing down all the things the bible bans,” Enjolras answers distractedly. He’s got quite the list already.

“Tell me about it,” Grantaire demands idly. Enjolras considers discussing his lack of enthusiasm, but they both know that Grantaire asked because he wants to be entertained rather than educated, and if there has ever been a lost cause when it comes to the education/entertainment issue, it’s Grantaire.

“Haircuts and shaving,” Enjolras recites from memory, “Shrimps and oysters, sex with women who are on their period, masturbation, insulting your parents, divorce, pork, women from talking in church, men who lack one or more testicles and/or their penis from going to church, women from helping their husbands out in fights by grabbing their testicles… I should suggest a few nice verses for people who are hell-bent on following parts of the bible and completely ignoring others. It’s not all dumb rules and outdated views, there are good parts as well-“

“Hang on a tick. I’ve got an idea,” Grantaire interrupts him and picks up one of Enjolras’ cardboard pieces he intended to turn into signs. He puts it on the stand, quickly painting it green in broad strokes. Enjolras watches, incredulous. Grantaire with an idea is almost never a good thing.

“You should be grateful,” Grantaire says as if reading his mind, picking up another paintbrush and dipping it in red paint, “Because this is the sign that is going to convince Bahorel to come along to the Pride Parade.” and with that, he turns around the stand to show Enjolras the sign. It says, in capital letters, IF I CAN EAT SHRIMP, THEY CAN EAT COCK!

Grantaire bows at Enjolras half-suppressed laugh.

*

Enjolras is collecting example material for gay marriage, which is why he’s leafing through legislative texts of various countries while lying on Grantaire’s bed with his boots and coat on. (It’s cold, and Grantaire refuses to turn the heating back on, and he liked the contrast).

The Netherlands are always good for this kind of thing: They changed three words of their constitution in 2001, just like that, and have not had any kind of negative results since. It’s the cleanest cut he’s ever seen a country make, and, comparing it to the pissing contest currently going on in France, Enjolras very much wants to make a sign that reads: _Three words for the government, but a world of happiness for us (AND NOTHING CHANGES FOR YOU SO SHUT THE FUCK UP)._

But Combeferre is right in saying that signs like these only ever serve the ones who are on their side already, and a neatly constructed argument has a better chance of working. Nobody likes to be yelled at, and it’s easy to be disgusted by someone who yells at you. It is not (he has been told) however, easy to be disgusted by Enjolras giving a speech that is respectful and fierce and makes sense, and so he gets to work.

He’s starting to get really absorbed into matters when something touches his neck. He swats at it distractedly, surprised at its warmth, and looks up to Grantaire hastily pulling back his hand.

Right. Grantaire. He's at Grantaire's.

"Sorry," he says, "I thought you were," _an insect_ doesn't sound like something he should necessarily finish this sentence with, so he goes for "not you," instead.

Which, it turns out, is worse.

Grantaire's expression goes from hurt to worried to angry to carefully blank within a second. "Who did you think I was," he asks, voice far too calm to be reassuring. Enjolras shifts. "Nobody," he says. "No reason to be jealous."

"I'm not jealous, I'm just wondering whose touch it was that you were so intent on avoiding. Have you been getting unwanted advances- of course you have, you're Enjolras- just tell me who it was and I'll-"

"Grantaire!" Enjolras interrupts his rambling. "I can defend myself! In case you didn't notice, I am quite able to express my disagreement with whatever unwanted advances I might get, verbally and physically. I don't need protecting!"

Grantaire is silent for a moment. "Then what," he starts up again, and Enjolras sighs.

"I am usually by my own when I'm preparing for a speech, which means that any occuring touches must have come in through the window, and I'm not talking burglars."

It takes him a moment, but then Grantaire laughs. "Oh. In that case, sorry. I guess I just have to check you're actually real from time to time or I'd end up convinced I'm just making you up."

"You could just ask. Beforehand, I mean. So I don't swat at you next time," Enjolras offers, and Grantaire's face lights up slowly.

*

Enjolras can’t get over the fact that he's not even allowed to mention paedophilia in any of their articles, or speeches, or posters.

He considers it part of their mission: it's to do with sexuality, and they aim to educate on the subject of all issues of sexuality and gender. And there's plenty to be said about paedophilia; it's far from being treated the same way that other illnesses are. The facts are right there for him to reach out to: being paedophilic doesn't mean acting on it - there's a distinction to be made between paedophilia and paedophilic behaviour, and sadism for that matter: fifty per cent of child abusers are not, in fact, paedophiles but sadists; people need to be more supportive of paedophiles: they have the right to get therapy without being frowned upon and-

"Can I steal a kiss?" Grantaire asks.

Enjolras gets back to reality with great difficulty. "What," he asks.

"Can I steal a kiss?" Grantaire repeats. "You said to ask you beforehand."

Enjolras nods, and Grantaire emerges from behind the canvas and crouches down until he's on Enjolras' level. He takes his face in both of his hands and presses a tiny kiss to his lips. Enjolras means to reciprocrate, but finds himself too deeply immerged in the subject still, his mind rattling off possible arguments.

"What were you thinking about?" Grantaire asks, getting back up.

"Paedophilia," Enjolras answers, and Grantaire curls his lips in distaste, "and that exact reaction to any mention of it. Combeferre won't let me write about it, he says it's too much of a sore subject, especially since we have Gavroche associating with us. We'd be likely to lose all of our supporters, and children's safety is more important to too many people."

"Well, and right he is," Grantaire says. "They would probably behead you or something. Seriously, Enjolras, paedophilia?"

"Yes!" Enjolras answers heatedly, "because if we treated paedophiles with a little more respect, if we gave them the chance to show that attraction does not equal action, if we made them feel like there was a way to get on with life without being ridiculed and spat upon and eyed warily with every step they take, then maybe more of them would consider therapy and celibacy as an actual option! Paedophilia is a burden, not a crime!"

Grantaire lets out a breath that sounds like suppressed laughter, but there's admiration in it as well. "Jesus, Enjolras, you've got speeches done already! Careful with that, one could come to the conclusion that you're one of them when you defend their honour so vehemently."

"What do I care? It wouldn't make me any less of a person if I were. Besides, this is exactly why nobody dares to speak up about it - we need more people who are not afraid to defend an issue that does not concern themselves directly."

"Well, I think we've already established that people are selfish bastards who never even think about issues that do not concern them. So, because there's a far greater number of people that care about people who are also children than there is of people who are also paedophilic, we're never going to get a serious debate on the topic."

Combeferre had said 'There's a time for everything. People will start thinking about it when they are ready,' which Enjolras thought was a stupid thing to say. Because if they don't start breaking the taboo now, then who, when? Nothing ever changes on its own.

There's a sting of disappointment at Grantaire's words, as always when he speaks up about something that's important to him and his friends talk it down, or laugh about it. Discussions he can do, but he can't stand it when people belittle his ambitions. He's spent half his life trying to get people who didn't care to listen to him, and it's never quite stopped hurting.

Grantaire takes one look at his face and doesn’t mention the topic again the whole evening.

*

It becomes a tradition after that: Grantaire will ask Enjolras, in the middle of an argument, or when he's trying to fit his opinions into 140 characters (Enjolras hates twitter with a passion), or while they're heading to the shop because they don't have enough food for breakfast, "Can I steal a kiss?" and Enjolras will nod, and kiss back or hold still depending on his mood, but he never says no. Physical affection isn't ever wasted on him, he just has trouble reacting accordingly sometimes, and Grantaire doesn't seem to mind that.

*

Enjolras' favourite person for an argument has always been Combeferre, because while they might fundamentally disagree on methods and means, they both still care about the issue equally deeply, and Combeferre has a knack for keeping heated discussions civil even if Enjolras is envolved.

So they fairly often get completely lost in their arguments, pushing back and forth, forgetting the room full of spectators, Combeferre sitting on the table, leaning forward, his glasses slowly sliding down his nose, and Enjolras standing in the middle of the rooms, hands gesturing furiously. On these occasions, Courfeyrac always gets out pen and paper at some point to jot down their arguments, or imagery they used, or particularly good remarks, because he knows that once they emerge, their argument will be a blur to them, like a dream, the only things left being an opinion slightly altered or strengthened and the lingering feeling of being understood and valued. Enjolras thinks it probably doesn't get any better than this, he doesn't get to feel more alive than he does at these moments, and that's fine with him, because frankly it is a frightening level of _alive_ already. There is a clarity about everything afterwards that makes him notice things he doesn't usually see.

So when he snaps out of it and looks over the room to see them all watch him with expressions that vary from intrigued (Jehan) to amused (Bahorel), he immediately spots Grantaire. Enjolras knows the expression on his face, it's the one he gets shortly before he asks for a kiss, and so Enjolras just shakes his head at him with a warning frown. Grantaire looks away and closes off his expression entirely, and Enjolras tries to be relieved.

(He fails. He follows Grantaire to the toilet, stops him at the washbasin, and kisses him against a wall until the expression from before makes a reappearance on his face. And if it also leaves him breathless and smiling, then well, that's an added bonus.)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering why Enjolras suddenly calls Grantaire Georges, I added a small paragraph at the beginning of the last chapter!  
> Okay so now this fic is rated explicit, apparently. Yeah. Sorry. You can skip the last part of this chapter if you don't feel like reading smut, nothing important happens after that!   
> And I feel that perhaps I should say that I consider the way Enjolras deals with Grantaire's alcoholism far from ideal. In fact Enjolras handles the whole relationship thing poorly, but because it's his POV, and Grantaire doesn't call him out on it, you might get the idea that this is my idea of a normal relationship. It, um. Isn't.

_  
_They don't get permission for their demonstration, because it's on the same day as one of the anti-gay-marriage demonstrations. ( _That's because there has been one of those EVERY DAY SINCE THEY PASSED THE LAW_ , Enjolras wants to scream. _That's because we were trying to make a point! That's because we wanted to let them know that there's a lot of_ us _, too!_ )

Combeferre doesn't try to calm him down, because Combeferre saves his energy for tasks with a higher rate of success than that. 

But Enjolras needs to calm down, he needs a clear brain to plan and decide if they should do it anyway or if it would be a waste of time, and so he sends a text to Grantaire. _sober tomorrow?_

Grantaire replies _,_ of all things, _no I've got someone else coming over already._

_for sex?_ Enjolras can't help but ask _._

_yes, E, imagine, you're not the only person that took pity on me_ is the reply, and Enjolras may not be an expert in textual undertones, but that definitely sounded bitter.

He tries, and fails, not to think about it: Grantaire with someone else, and who is it? And why? And how did that happen? - and he finds, oddly, that he doesn't like it. At all.

So he calls Grantaire first thing in the morning. "What would you say if I wanted us to be exclusive?" he asks, by way of saying hello.

"I'd say yeah, sure, if you were to make it a proper relationship in all respects," Grantaire answers, voice still rough with sleep.

"I'll think on it," Enjolras promises, without really intending to, and hangs up.

He doesn't like the strings that come with Grantaire, and he'd rather be illogically annoyed about a stranger in Grantaire's bed than have to worry about all of Grantaire's numerous problems in extension.

But he _does_ send a text later that evening. _sober and up for it tomorrow, or are you too exhausted?_

_what do you think about fingerfucking,_ Grantaire texts back, _never tried it out but I think I might like it_ and there’s a sting of disappointment because right, Grantaire wasn’t going to be sober this evening, since nobody asked him to.

*

"Heyyy," Grantaire says, moving to the side to let him in. "How are you doing?" He doesn't contract the words like he usually does, slightly dragging them out instead.

"Grantaire. Are you _still_ drunk?" Enjolras asks, and Grantaire grins at him.

"I am _wild_ ," he replies with a sweeping gesture. "Do you want tea?"

Enjolras refuses the tea and goes straight back home, where he spends three hours trying to swamp his frustration in planning and studying and ignore the buzzing of his phone. Needless to say that it doesn't work. Grantaire has never been anything but irritating, to Enjolras specifically.

It’s not just Grantaire’s apathy and refusal to try and quit drinking that anger Enjolras. But in combination with his intelligence, his eloquence and charm, it is incredibly infuriating: Because Grantaire knows full well how to capture an audience; he knows exactly how to say something to make sure it’s going to be remembered. And then he goes and uses it to get free booze and a round of applause.

The text reads:

_Sorry i meant to tell you so you wouldn't have to bother coming over but then i thought maybe you wouldn't notice. Sober tomorrow though, if you still want to?_

*

Enjolras doesn't want to talk about it, so he just kisses Grantaire as soon as he's through the door, angrier than usually, dragging his teeth across Grantaire’s lower lip until he gets a small breathy sound in return.

Grantaire doesn't seem to mind, though, bringing up his hands to Enjolras' waist while Enjolras slams the door shut behind himself with a decisive tug. He gets them to the bed, walking Grantaire backwards until the backs of his knees meet the bed and he half-falls, Enjolras landing on top of him, hands on his shoulders.

"You can hurt me if you like," Grantaire tells him. It's the first thing he's had the chance to say. It's not exactly what Enjolras has expected to hear.

"What do you mean?" he asks, sitting up.

"If you're into that. I might have a thing for it, I've never tried it out," Grantaire answers.

Enjolras spends a moment trying to imagine Grantaire, tied up, writhing with something other than pleasure, tries to imagine himself hitting him, and ends up feeling vaguely sick. "I'm very much not into hurting you," he states, and Grantaire laughs.

"I know for a fact that that’s not true," he says, and there's a bitterness to it that Enjolras wants gone, and quick.

"Perhaps this isn't a conversation that we should be having while I'm sitting on top of you," he says, trying to get up.

Trying being the key word, because Grantaire's hands shoot up to hold him firmly in place. "On the contrary, my friend. I think it should be mandatory for you to be sitting on top of me during any and all occurring serious discussions we might have in the future."

Enjolras shifts. He might as well get it out now, it's not like a different situation will make it any nicer. "I don't enjoy it." He doesn't want to explain. There's nothing to explain, really. "I don't even get angry at you. Annoyed, perhaps. It's injustice I get angry about." It's not Grantaire's fault. Grantaire doesn't deserve any of the shit he's been getting from him: Grantaire may be passive, and pessimistic, and cynical, but he has never so much as tried to be hurtful towards anyone other than himself. 

"And so when I tell you about the injustice of the world in general, and the world in general isn't there to be brought to reason, you choose to shoot the messenger a glare and a snide remark instead," Grantaire finishes, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Yes," Enjolras admits. It's the closest he gets to saying sorry.

"Are you trying to tell me that you have an anger management problem?" Grantaire asks, and Enjolras snorts.

"Don't tell me you haven't noticed," he says. He tends to get angry a lot at meetings. After all, that's where they discuss the news, sexist or homophobic laws passed or anti-gay protests or homophobic murders that nobody talks about - he can't imagine a situation in which he hears or talks about any of this and manages to stay calm about it.

"I did. I just thought it was righteous fury," Grantaire says, sounding curious of all things.

"The line's kind of thin, but I'm pretty sure I'm on that side of it."

Grantaire's hands are still on his legs, thumbs moving in tiny circles. "What happens if you try to keep it to yourself?" he asks, and there's genuine interest in the question. Grantaire doesn't sound put off so much as _intrigued_.

Enjolras looks away. "I throw up," he says curtly, leaving out everything that happens in between. He doesn't have the words anyway.

"Throwing up's awful," Grantaire comments, his tone light, "well feel free to keep using me as a punching bag." And he ends the conversation by sneaking his hands under Enjolras' shirt.

“So,” he says, his hands moving their way up his back until Enjolras gets the hint and raises his hands to let Grantaire take off his shirt, “about that thing I said. About fingerfucking.” He says it softly, like it’s a compliment, like it’s meant to elicit a smile and a blush rather than arousal. Enjolras finds that he likes the way Grantaire talks about sex, his casualty and complete lack of awkwardness about it.

“Yes,” Enjolras consents, because he’s spent quite some time trying to imagine it, and he still doesn’t know if he likes or hates the idea, “you go first though, and report back to me,” and Grantaire laughs and twists beneath him so he can reach the nightstand drawer.

“With the greatest of pleasure”, he says lightly, and throws him a package of disposable gloves. “You should make that a job. Sex taster. I’d be the best”

Enjolras eyes the package. “Gloves, Georges?” he asks. “Seriously?”

“Well, if you'd prefer to go barehanded, be my guest," Grantaire smirks, “I'd just assumed you'd want the most sanitary way possible, but go ahead and prove me wrong! I most certainly don't mind.”

Enjolras snaps on one of the gloves, testing its texture with his other hand. It catches. “Isn't that going to hurt?”

“Lube it up, I'll hardly feel it,” Grantaire replies easily. His eyes are still trained on Enjolras' gloved hand, widening just a fraction when Enjolras snaps the glove a second time.

“You’ll want to stop that or all I’ll report back to you is an essay on how gloves shouldn’t turn me on but still do it anyway.”

Enjolras stops, and leans in for an open-mouthed kiss instead, where he gets kind of lost until Grantaire pulls away, saying, “okay, come on now, I know you’re just procrastinating,” and Enjolras flicks at his shoulder but moves to comply. He helps Grantaire shimmy out of his trousers and underwear, pressing kisses to his skin on the way.

Grantaire looks at him expectantly while Enjolras coats his gloved hand in lube and warms it up like he’s seen Grantaire do it before.

Enjolras keeps his eyes on Grantaire’s face for lack of a better option. Grantaire looks relaxed, and a second away from a witty remark, as always. The only reaction Enjolras gets when he slowly presses his index finger in is that Grantaire’s mouth clicks shut.

"You have to crook it," Grantaire says eventually, "upwards," and Enjolras does. "No, try it again," Grantaire demands, and this time there's a reaction - a shiver, muscles tensing, and Enjolras is about to pull out again when Grantaire says, voice strained, "yes, that's it. Give me more of that." Enjolras complies, crooking his finger in the exact same way and getting the same involuntary response, and Grantaire gets out a breathless “no, I mean _more_ give me – like, massage it”, so Enjolras eases in a second finger and tries.

And apparently this is it, this is how to make Grantaire writhe and shake and tense and moan and ask for "more more more oh _God_ -" and who is Enjolras to refuse him?

-

“Ten out of ten,” Grantaire says from where he’s been reduced to a breathless heap afterwards, “it’s really strange at first but oh God is it worth it.”

So Enjolras decides to try it.

But when Grantaire curves his finger upward inside him, there's a spark of sensation that has Enjolras flinching, and it's strangely intense but "Stop," he doesn't like it at all. "Stop stop _stop_ ," he says even as Grantaire is pulling out, "how can you like that oh God that doesn't feel good _at all,_ " and then there's a soothing hand on his hip and Grantaire kneels next to him with a worried expression. “Sorry, sorry, are you okay?” he asks.

Enjolras calms down enough to say, "Go wash your hands," because all that comes to his mind right now is that Grantaire hasn’t been using gloves. "All right?" Grantaire asks, unmoving. "All right, all right, go wash your hands," Enjolras repeats, feeling stupid already.

Grantaire places a kiss on the top of his head and goes to the bathroom, while Enjolras gets himself dressed again.

"Probably something to do with how much you like the loss of control," Grantaire says when he comes back in, carefully leaving a bit of space between them. Enjolras closes it by rolling over before he can think about it, and Grantaire immediately tangles his fingers in his hair in response.

"Probably," Enjolras says. After all, he doesn't like alcohol either, and everyone keeps assuring him that you don't get to have any more fun than you do when you're drunk.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very short one, I'm sorry. I kind of didn't know what else to put in here. Next chapter will be longer!

“I’ve met Someone,” Enjolras confesses to Combeferre, hidden away from prying eyes in their corner of the backroom that’s usually reserved for Important Ideas only. He’s thought about it, wondered if it would perhaps be cruel, but he has come to the conclusion that Combeferre deserves to know before he finds it out himself (which he will, undoubtedly, very soon. He knows Combeferre.)

Combeferre says, “have you,” and smiles. It’s not an understanding smile, or a teasing one, not even an amused one. It’s just a smile, kept carefully blank of any undertones. Which Enjolras takes as an “I know exactly what you’ve been up to, don’t you try to fool me” – his heart starts racing, and it races for quite a bit until Enjolras remembers that there’s nothing to be afraid of. Combeferre is not the judging kind, and he’s not prone to gossiping. In fact, Combeferre is to gossiping what Enjolras is to surrender, which means that he’s safe and nothing at all is going to change, provided that he keeps his mouth shut.

“We’re not actually in a relationship or anything.” Enjolras smiles back at Combeferre with no teeth showing in an attempt to look harmless.

Combeferre asks softly, “do you treat him alright, your capital-S-Someone? Try not to hurt him, okay?” which makes Enjolras laugh: Grantaire is doing a good enough job of breaking himself already, and is dead to the attempts of the rest of the world. He’s untouchable to everything aside from himself: never touched, never moved, never even surprised by anything that might be said or happen to him, always the cynic with a sarcastic remark about everything.

And here’s Combeferre, avoiding using the word _should_ , because he knows that Enjolras is stone to all the _shoulds_ and _shouldn’ts_ of the world. Because Combeferre knows him like nobody else does, and because he sees things that Enjolras is blind to.

Enjolras takes into consideration Grantaire’s widening smile whenever he looks at Enjolras, his hunched shoulders when Enjolras snaps at him, his fury about any and all occurring scratches and bruises or twisted ankles that Enjolras dares to bring to the Musain the day after a rally, and he nods, very slowly.

“Be nice to him,” Combeferre advises, and advice from Combeferre is to be followed.

Enjolras says, “I’ll try,” because they both know that _nice_ has never been one of his special talents.

*

Later that evening, he gets a text from Grantaire that says: _are you coming to Joly’s party tomorrow?_

Joly is turning twenty and has decided to make it a big deal (possibly under Courfeyrac’s influence), inviting the inner circle of Les Amis and their _plus n_ , as he put it. Marius is going to bring Cosette, Jehan tries to get Eponine to come along and finally meet them in a non-planning-demonstrations-situation, and Courfeyrac might show up with his current girlfriend.

Enjolras shudders at the thought. Parties have never been his thing, leaving him feeling slightly off balance and insecure, which is not something he’s accustomed to. Plus, watching everyone get their brains shut down by alcohol is not exactly his way of choice to spend a night.

So he texts back: _No, you go._ And since he’s trying to be nice, he adds: _Have fun._

There’s no reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What happens at the party can be read [here ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/830169/chapters/1630962) (and in the previous chapter if you're interested in what Combeferre and Eponine are doing.)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Big Thing. This is NOT the last chapter. It was supposed to be, but then I had another idea and then another and now, yeah. 
> 
> If you want to know what happened at the party, you can read that [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/830169/chapters/1630962).

Enjolras knows that something is off the second he enters the Musain. He’s used to being the centre of attention, but not in this particular way. He missed something. “Uh,” he says. “How was the party?”

“Goooood,” Bahorel says, dragging out the syllable in a way that means he’s either relaxed and happy, or absolutely furious.

"I got to see some interesting paintings of you," Courfeyrac adds, both eyebrows raised; there’s a sparkle in his eyes that Enjolras can't quite identify. "You've got to give Grantaire some credit; he really knows what he's doing."

Enjolras doesn't reply, because he's speechless. Swamped with fury. Of course Grantaire would show off his paintings. Of course he'd brag. Of course. What did he expect? Grantaire, once drunk, is reduced to his basic instincts; it's no news: why did Enjolras think this would be any different?

"What did he show you," Enjolras manages to bite out. "He promised to keep them to him –“

"Oh, he kept his promise alright," Courfeyrac says back, strangely cold. "This was just me being a nosy bastard. He showed me one of his more... decent paintings, and I couldn't keep myself from nosing about a bit in the picture folder. And guess what I found! I asked him about it, and he told me some quite interesting things..."

"That he promised to keep quiet about as well," Enjolras snaps, "so it's none of your business-"

"Oh, I think you'll find that it's very much our business how you treat our friend. So apparently there are rules, and one of them is to not tell us anything? And I couldn't help but wonder. Pray tell, Enjolras, what are the other rules?" Courfeyrac asks, a sing-song of annoyance. Enjolras looks around for support, and finds himself fresh out of it. Jehan, Combeferre and Bahorel are wearing matching expressions of righteous fury that Enjolras knows very well - except that they usually aren't directed at him. Courfeyrac speaks up again, adding, "What could possibly be worse than 'I agree to have sex if you don't tell your friends anything about it so they won't be able to protect you when I treat you like a piece of shit'?"

Enjolras feels vaguely irritated. This is not a situation he's used to; his friends gathered around him and angry about him rather than another unrelated incident in the world out there: it's starting to creep him out, and so he does what he always does: looks over to Combeferre.

Combeferre just nods.

"In case it'd go wrong, he was not supposed to talk to me about it," he says, reluctant. "And I wanted him to be sober."

"You what." That's Bahorel. Enjolras doesn't break eye contact with him, but only just. "So you made sobriety a condition of your affair? For Grantaire? He's an addict, you ignorant fucking twat, not a puppy you can just train to behave whatever way you want! You can't just ignore his condition and think it's going to go away!"

"I didn't think it was going to go away -"

"Oh, you don't believe you have a magical healing cock, well done! So you just didn't care, right, as long as it didn't affect you! Well I've got news for you, Grantaire is a fucked up kid, and you get him with all of the fucked up bits or not at all!"

"He agreed-"

"That doesn't give you the right!" Bahorel eyes him, and then turns to get his coat. "I'm at the gym," he says in leaving. "I suppose you can't just punch some sense into someone, but - and this is a promise - if you keep on fucking with Grantaire, I'm sure as hell going to try." He slams the door.

Enjolras turns around to the ones that are left. None of them does anything to ease the tension, making a joke about Bahorel and overreactions, their faces set in stone. Jehan speaks up next.

"Let me sum this up. You'd tell Grantaire one day in advance so he could sober up, then you'd turn up on his doorstep, get mind-blowing sex, and go home, yes? All of that without having it affect your life in general, the secrecy implied?" he asks, clearly not expecting an answer. "So basically you've been treating him like a prostitute. Except you didn't give him anything in return."

"Oh, now you want me to _pay_ him-" Enjolras starts, and Jehan slams down a fist on the table. "That's not the point, and you know it! The point is, with the way you've been treating Grantaire, he feels like he doesn't deserve someone who treats him like an actual person. His self-esteem is low enough as it is!"

Enjolras doesn't say anything. He's waiting for Combeferre to speak up, because in situations like this, Combeferre always has the last word. Enjolras trusts Combeferre with everything he has.

Combeferre, however, doesn't address his next words to Enjolras. He turns to Courfeyrac and Jehan instead, saying, "Give me a word with Enjolras alone, please," and they stand up and leave, just like that.

Combeferre waits until they’ve pulled the door shut behind themselves until he turns back to face Enjolras.

“So you’ve met ‘Someone’, yeah?” Combeferre asks, and there’s just a hint of teasing behind the sternness of his voice.

“He practically threw himself at me,” Enjolras argues, feeling like something went horribly wrong. He always does when he has to get defensive. He never took to it; it just doesn’t work for him.

“You made it very easy for him. I’m very glad I didn’t know a few years ago that all I had to do was ask,” Combeferre says softly.

Enjolras shifts in his seat, eyes on the floor. They don’t talk about this. It’s practically the law.

"Wouldn't it have been better if I'd fallen for you instead?"

Combeferre laughs, and it is a laugh that Enjolras has heard from him once before, and sworn to himself never to cause again. "Oh, you wouldn't have fallen for me. You'd have used me up. It'd have broken both of us, you because your best friend would have been someone else when you'd be done with me, and me because you would've left afterwards.

“You know me to be rational, Enjolras,” Combeferre goes on, “and yet I can’t guarantee that I wouldn’t have jumped at the opportunity to have an affair with you, however brief, however damaging. And you expect Grantaire, of all people, to choose more wisely in that respect?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “So you’re saying, I’m supposed to decide for him?” There’s something creeping up his throat, and it won’t be a good thing once it’s out. Enjolras swallows.

“I’m saying, love makes you vulnerable. There’s some kind of responsibility to it. So if Grantaire falls in love with you, it is partly your responsibility to make sure he doesn’t come out of it bruised and broken. Even if you didn’t ask for it, even if he didn’t ask you to.”

“This is oppression of free will-“ Enjolras starts, but Combeferre cuts in, “it is human decency,” sounding very sure of himself.

Enjolras gives up. Combeferre, who knows his face like the back of his hand, puts a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t end it,” he says.

“What?”

“If you feel like it could somehow work. If you think you’re capable of treating him better. Don’t end it.”

*

By the time Enjolras gets off the bus, he feels weary and vaguely guilty. His anger at Grantaire has mostly worn off, and he’s beginning to question his own judgment, which is something that has never happened to him before.

In short, he’d like some time on his own to sort his thoughts, possibly with Combeferre assisting him via texts, and a cup of tea.

He should have known that was too much to ask for.

Because of course, on his doorstep, there’s a capital-S Someone waiting for him. Resting his chin on one drawn knee, Grantaire is sitting next to a slightly burnt cake that has _APOLLOGIES_ written on top of it in bright green letters.

Enjolras sighs. “Condition number five,” he says without any heat, and fishes for the keys.

Grantaire scrambles to his feet, torn between saving the cake from Enjolras’ feet and leaving it to have use of both his arms so he can hug Enjolras, by the look of it.

Enjolras doesn’t feel like he should be hugged right now; and especially not by Grantaire. So he lets his left foot hover right over the cake, and watches Grantaire huff and snatch it away. “It doesn’t count as a stupid nickname when it’s a pun,” he says. Enjolras moves to unlock the door, and Grantaire steps aside to let him. “Enjolras…”

Enjolras cuts him off. “Grantaire, if you’re expecting me to be nice, then you should probably leave me alone right now and give me a few hours to figure this whole thing out.” He’s half-inside already, Grantaire awkwardly hovering in the doorframe, still balancing the cake.

“I’d rather know now what I have to expect,” Grantaire concedes.

Enjolras has no idea what Grantaire has to expect. This is proving to be one hell of a lot more complicated than initially thought.

“I don’t know,” he snaps, leaving the door open behind him in a silent invitation. Grantaire, as is his wont, follows. “That’s what I need to figure out,” Enjolras adds more calmly, entering the kitchen and leaning against the stove. Grantaire unceremoniously dumps the cake on the table.

“Then I should probably be present to prevent you from getting bad ideas like that you getting rid of me would do me good in some inexplicable way,” he says and goes to sit on the table. Enjolras thinks about telling him off, but ends up finding his actual verbal message too important. (This is a first.)

“I have been,” Enjolras searches for words, trying to be careful. It is not something he’s used to. “Unmistakably told that the way I’m treating you…”

“So treat me better,” Grantaire interrupts him, “or don’t, if you can’t find the will, seriously I don’t care. Listen, I’m sorry about telling your friends, I’m not entirely sure how it happened, I was drunk, and I don’t know if you’re aware of it but you’re quite the catch and I’m kind of proud that I got you, or a bit of your time anyway, and so I wanted to gloat, and I didn’t expect them to _care_ so bloody much…”

Enjolras smiles a tiny little smile. “If there’s one thing you can be sure about when it comes to my friends,” he says, “It’s that they care.”

“But not about _me!_ ” Grantaire says it with such confusion that it feels like a blow to the stomach to Enjolras. If this crippling self-consciousness is his work, he deserves far more than a little heart-to-heart with his friends.

“You’re their friend too, Grantaire, you know that,” he says, and it sounds irritable but he can’t help it: He’s not the right person to do this. “This is what I mean - I’m obviously not good for you…”

“You don’t need to make a decision on my behalf, I’m not a child! Don’t think I’m incapable of assessing the situation just because I’m in love,” Grantaire says, “call me worthless or a nuisance or disgusting, but at least I know it. I know, Enjolras, that you’re far enough out of my league to be looking down at me, and frankly I’m still marvelling at the fact that you don’t, and that you actually show a bit of affection for me every now and again. So I’m grateful. Okay? You don’t owe me anything, I’ll just take whatever it is you have to offer, no need to tell me how exactly it is that you don’t love me, I expect nothing of you. Just don’t take this choice away from me because you think it’s unhealthy. I’m a wreck anyway, at least give me a bit of fun to be had. So don’t decide for me, decide for yourself. Do you want me around or not?”

It’s a legitimate question. It’s also a question Enjolras has been putting off for far too long. He turns around to stare out of the window and think about it; he hears Grantaire nervously shift on the table.

Does he like him around?

Grantaire is an annoying presence in the back of his head when he’s studying. He’s no good for their ambitions, he doesn’t care about anything in the world, he’s a spineless disgusting heap of unhealthy habits, and his pessimism makes Enjolras want to punch something.

Grantaire is someone he can come home to. Grantaire doesn’t care about seeing him tired, or exposed, or less than hopeful – no, that’s not it: It’s _Enjolras_ who doesn’t care about Grantaire seeing him like that. Enjolras likes the casualty of their touches, the quiet and unharried intimacy they share; the way Grantaire fits them together despite all their differences, no matter what.

He turns around slowly, to Grantaire watching him behind half-closed lids, and wordlessly holds out a hand.

Grantaire hops off the table to take it. Enjolras tugs at it until Grantaire is standing directly in front of him and dips his head to give him a close-mouthed kiss.

“This is probably a bad idea,” he says, because it still is.

Grantaire laughs. “Have you seen my life lately? It’s practically a _museum_ of bad ideas.” He winds one strand of Enjolras’ hair around his finger. “Really, as bad ideas go, this one is quite refreshing. By far the most beautiful one yet, I think.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The cake](http://delabaisse.tumblr.com/image/51732225308) and [Grantaire](http://delabaisse.tumblr.com/image/51717655578).


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not very sure about this chapter.  
> Also, there's sex. Or, you know, as close to sex as I'll let them get because I'm just that mean.  
> Gee, I wonder if there's a connection?

Enjolras wakes up to an arm slung around his waist and a face pressed to his back.

He remembers declaring the day to be over and done with, ordering Grantaire to stay and watch a film with him. And then to stay the night. He remembers watching Grantaire change into an old, faded tee shirt of Enjolras’ and thinking the view of him in Enjolras’ bed strange. He remembers Grantaire making a point of pressing his back to Enjolras’ and slotting the soles of their feet together for good measure after Enjolras turned to lie facing away from him.

He doesn’t remember getting an arm slung around him and a face pressed between his shoulder blades, but it’s not unwelcome.

Grantaire’s hot breath against his spine is what makes him turn around and meet Grantaire’s wide-awake eyes in the end.

“Hey,” Grantaire says.

“We need to talk,” Enjolras answers. Grantaire blinks.

“Trust you to make a conversation infinitely more frightening with just one sentence. I vote no.” He closes his eyes again.

“So you don’t think we need something of a basic understanding of what we have?” Enjolras asks.

“I think,” Grantaire drawls, “that we can’t be having a serious conversation right now, since you’re not sitting on top of me. Simple deduction.”

“Be serious.”

“I can’t, that’s what I’m trying to tell you!”

Enjolras sighs in exasperation, but he does get up and rid of the blanket to straddle Grantaire, who blinks up at him with his too-wide smile, showing too-small teeth and pale gums.

“Better,” Grantaire says. “Right, what did you want to talk about?”

“You said something about a proper relationship the other day. What does that entail?”

“Oh, you know, I was thinking about the basics, like me knowing your home address, for starters, instead of having to ask Combeferre. Or being allowed to start a conversation and invite you over on my own. No denying us in front of your friends. If you’re asking me, we’re halfway there already.”

“Done. What about your drinking? I want you to stop, but I’m not going to force you to. Do you want to try, though? Because I’d help you.”

Grantaire forces a smile. “Ah, you’re trying to take over my problems. Tell you what, though, Enjolras, you’ll get to a point where you won’t want to know what comes next, and you have to stop there, okay?”

“Where do you get the idea that your problems exceed my motivation to help you?”

“Where do you get the idea that there’s a finite number of problems? I’ve got an endless supply! But actually, there’s something else.”

“Yes?”

“As should have come to your attention by now, I’m irrevocably, mindlessly in love with you. There are going to be times, such as now, where I’ll want to tell you.”

Enjolras feels a smile tug at the corners of his mouth even before he feels the matching emotion. It’s irrational, because this isn’t _news_ to him, but somehow, it’s actually quite nice to hear it. “That’s quite alright,” he hears himself say and adds: “As long as you don’t expect me to say it back.”

“Oh God no please don’t,” Grantaire says in a rush. “Of all the things I don’t want you to lie about, this is number one on the list.”

Enjolras nods and says, “I won’t say it unless I’m sure,” causing Grantaire to look like he’s about to pass out.

“You,” he starts faintly, and Enjolras deems it best to interrupt him. “Also, about the sex,” he says, and Grantaire goes from white as a wall to cautiously hopeful within mere seconds.

“I think we’ve established that we’re on opposite ends of the sex drive spectrum,” Enjolras adds, and Grantaire’s face falls, but he does nod.

“We’ll figure it out,” Enjolras promises, “I mean I’m by no means asexual, and I love your blowjobs, and I know I’ve failed to reciprocate so far, but I’ll get there ev – _oh_ – eventually, Georges, and _this was in no way intended to turn you on._ ”

“Enjolras, you’re sitting on top of me promising me a blowjob. What did you think would happen?” Grantaire says, eyebrows disappearing beneath a mop of sleep-tousled hair. “Can I steal a kiss?”

“No kissing until we’ve both brushed our teeth.”

“Says the man currently keeping me from getting up and to the bathroom. Aw, come on, lazy morning kisses are the best kisses.”

“There’s nothing even remotely nice about morning breath, full stop.”

“But –“

“Not up for discussion!”

“You’re sitting on top of me, ergo we’re having a serious discussion. We’re talking about morning breath, ergo that’s the topic of the discussion,” Grantaire sing-songs with a lazy grin. “There’s no escaping my logic!” He cants his hips upwards as if for emphasis.

Two can play at this game, Enjolras thinks, and grinds down. Grantaire’s eyelids flutter shut.

Enjolras’ phone rings.

Grantaire opens his eyes, fixating on Enjolras with an unreadable expression.

Enjolras looks at his phone; it says ‘Combeferre’.

“I have to get that,” Enjolras says softly.

“I know.”

Enjolras splays out his fingers on Grantaire’s chest, causing him to inhale sharply, and gets up on all fours. He can feel Grantaire’s ribs through the thin fabric.

He lets his fingers slide down. When they reach the waistband of Grantaire’s briefs, he bows his head until his mouth touches the outline of Grantaire’s cock against the fabric.

“ _Christ,”_ Grantaire says. Looking up at him, Enjolras can only see the long line of his throat and his chin.

He gets up and grabs the phone from his nightstand, ignoring the swear words following him. “Fuck, Enjolras, you can’t just _do that and leave!_ ”

I can, says Enjolras’ unimpressed hand waving for him to be quiet. “Yes?” he says into the phone, with some irritation. From the corner of his eye, he sees Grantaire’s hand sneaking into his briefs. He goes into the bathroom.

“Enjolras.” Combeferre sounds worn and tired. “Have you heard about Lamarque?”

Jean Lamarque is head and heart of a small political party - commonly known as the Rainbow Party - that’s in the midst of establishing themselves. He’s a charming, friendly giant who practically _radiates_ promise. Most everyone likes him, even though he’s blatantly gay, and admitted to being HIV positive at some point of his political career. Enjolras’ met him, disagreed with him on some rather important points, but thinks him an overall step forward of society. They’ve kept contact of sorts, because the man can be a true inspiration, and found that he grew quite fond of him over time.

“No,” Enjolras says, thinking back to their last conversation. _Bless your soul,_ Lamarque had written in what Enjolras thought to be a fit of sentimentalism at the time. It’s been weeks since then. “What happened?” he asks, more urgently now.

“He’s dead.”

What comes first is blinding, mindless, burning rage, because this is injustice at its finest; he was too _young_ and he was going to be _brilliant_ and Enjolras’ fury never cares if there’s someone to be held accountable for it, as long as it’s just not _fair_. Enjolras trembles with the force of it, tries to hold it down as he always does, the careless cruelty trying to escape. He disconnects the call, so Combeferre won’t be the one it hits, but there’s nothing to do to save Grantaire except for just holding it down, and so he swallows it down and swallows and swallows until there’s bile rising up his throat, and the next thing he knows he’s bent over the toilet and retching and spitting. Grantaire comes in at some point and kneels down next to him, keeping his hair out of his face.

With the vomit come the tears, and _of course_ Grantaire sees them; he’s watching him as intently as he always does. There is no point of contact besides his hand in Enjolras’ hair, which Enjolras is grateful for.

He refuses to feel ashamed: This is just Grantaire. No faith has been lost, no belief destabilised. And if this cures a bit of Grantaire’s unhealthy obsession, then well, all the better.

“You should take up kickboxing,” Grantaire says eventually. “Helps you to channel the fury. Get rid of it.”

“And teaches me how to do more harm with the same amount of energy,” Enjolras retorts. “Not exactly what I need.” Swimming is the only sport he allows himself to do.

Grantaire doesn’t look convinced.

“It’s not that kind of anger,” Enjolras tries to explain through a burning throat. He doesn’t know why he bothers. “I don’t – get it out of my system by just moving a lot. It’s more like, cruelty waiting to happen. Can be verbally as well. I said some terrible things. To you, too.” He washes out his mouth. He’s not going to get any closer to an apology.

“I know,” Grantaire says, very softly. “I’m sorry.”

And Enjolras doesn’t want to be calmed down, he wants to scream and roar, he – _yes, exactly._ “We’re doing the demonstration tomorrow.”

“They cancelled the demonstration,” Grantaire says, right on top of him, as if he’s been expecting to hear exactly that. “They’ll be expecting you. You’ll cause nothing but a fuss.”

“I need to do the fucking demonstration tomorrow, do you hear me,” Enjolras snaps.

“You’re the boss.” Grantaire says it slowly, without a trace of mockery.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm kind of reluctant to write about anything that happens at the actual demonstration because I've never been on one and I have no idea how they work.
> 
> And apparently, thunderous doesn't mean what I thought it meant? Anyway, you'll get what I'm trying to say.

They don't arrive at the hastily called meeting on time, because Grantaire insists on buying a bottle of wine on their way. Enjolras knows Grantaire probably went without for far too long, can see his hands shake and the sheen of sweat on his forehead, but that does nothing to lighten the tight-knit ball of disappointment settling in his stomach next to curled up rage and disgust that he refuses to let out. He keeps his mouth shut, but Grantaire takes one look at his face and knows to keep his distance, and so they don't exactly hold hands when they enter the Musain.

They could as well have.

There's soft smiles and hushed giggles where Enjolras wants quiet determination and grim faces, and so he takes a step away from Grantaire and says, “Sorry I’m late.”

 “Laid indeed,” Courfeyrac mutters, before he adds louder and more cheerful, “No need to apologise!”

“Right,” Enjolras says. He takes a quick look around and counts – they’re all there, sans Marius, which, well, was to be expected. Grantaire slinks to his usual seat in the back of the room, uncorking the bottle on his way there, like he can’t wait the few seconds it takes him to get there. “I called this meeting because of the demonstration tomorrow...”

“Is this because of Lamarque?” Bahorel asks. “It’s been all over the news. You know you can’t blame anyone for his death –“

“This isn’t about what caused his death,” Enjolras grits out; “it’s about how it will be received by the vast majority of people. HIV is still a stigma. People will see the news and go, oh but it was his fault, he was careless, he was sleeping around, he deserves it! People will be embarrassed rather than shocked, they’ll turn to something else because they don’t want to think about this, and that’s _not okay!_ Because there’s still judgement of his sexuality in there, of his life style – otherwise there’d be the same reaction when a smoker dies from lung cancer. But cancer is tragic, right? Whereas AIDS is just ugly. We need to raise awareness – we can’t just accept this reaction, we can’t be _quiet_ about this –“

“But is an illegal demonstration the way to go?” Combeferre interrupts.

“Well what else is there? You know we’re blocked for _weeks_ to come, people will have forgotten by then, we can’t let them!” _I couldn’t bear it,_ Enjolras doesn’t say. _Make him matter._ “Besides, his party will need all the support they can get, now that they’ve lost their leader-“

“I can’t believe it,” Grantaire breathes from where he’s sitting, dumbstruck. Enjolras can barely decipher the words, but stops talking at the sight of his expression.

“You’re trying to infiltrate the Rainbow Party,” Grantaire goes on, louder this time, “you want to make us important enough for them to want you as their new face...”

Enjolras can’t say anything for a moment. The thought has indeed crossed his mind: They could do _so much more_ with this already kind-of-known party, make it focus on all the right issues and show that what they’re fighting for is actually in a lot of people’s interest, rather than just a few stray activists’. But this is not the time for that, he knows. “It’s not about that,” he says after a second. “This is about respect, and grief.”

“Again,” Combeferre says, “maybe an illegal demonstration that could easily go south isn’t the best way to show that.”

“Then what do you propose?” Enjolras snaps.

“We could make a video, upload a post, that kind of thing. Something that shows our support without making us look like a handful of unorganised schoolboys with too much time and energy.”

“That won’t change shit. You know people only care about really fucked up or romantic things happening. A video about someone who died of AIDS won’t be passed on.”

“I’m all for a rally,” Bahorel pipes up, and Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Trust me, _we know.”_

“He’s got a point, though,” Jehan says, “we’ve had vaguely planned on doing this the whole time, we could pull it off. And don’t tell me the fucking Christian families with their ten children protesting something that doesn’t even _affect_ them don’t piss you off,” he adds when Combeferre tries to get a word in, effectively shutting him up.

“We’re all riled up,” Bossuet says from where he’s sat on the floor, leaning against Joly’s legs. “We could make it a general awareness thing, and put in a few things about Lamarque, if you’d think that won’t be offensive to relatives and friends – “

“We’d do it tactfully,” Feuilly agrees, “and maybe slip in a few signs with hints to Russia’s current situation, like how our government completely ignores everything that’s going on there...”

“Bahorel can take his shrimp sign!” Courfeyrac contributes excitedly, and just like that, the situation is clear. Two out of the three core members agreeing means they’ll do it.

“That was supposed to be for the Pride Parade...” Bahorel complains, and Grantaire assures him, “oh, I’ll get you a new one for that, don’t worry!”

Enjolras turns to Combeferre, who sighs and smiles in his exasperated yet indulgent way. He raises his eyebrows, because it’s not like he’s going to leave him behind just like that.

Combeferre nods in his direction, once, and then goes straight to planning.

*

They all want to be there, when Enjolras asks around. Their faces are bright and excited; it sets Enjolras on edge, he doesn’t mean to, but there’s an underlying irritation to his words that he can’t make go away.

“And you, Grantaire.” he asks finally, doing his best to keep his expression unreadable. “Are you going to be there?”

“Depends,” Grantaire answers, with a lazy smile. “Is it going to be dangerous?”

“For you?” Enjolras laughs. “What would you get in trouble for, Grantaire? Singing along half-heartedly? Not holding a sign? Not giving enough fucks? On second thought, don't even bother.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Enjolras,” Bahorel huffs. “Do I _actually_ have to punch you?”

“For you, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, his smile gone. “I meant, are _you_ likely to get in trouble.”

Enjolras feels thunderous, and Grantaire's refusal to provide resistance does nothing to stop him. “How does that affect your attendance? Were you going to heroically save me from getting arrested? Were you going to prevent anyone from noticing me? Stay home, Grantaire.” He tries to soften his voice for the last sentence, sending Grantaire something of an apology along with it. But he's wound up and tense and it probably doesn't work the way he wanted it to, because Grantaire just looks at him patiently the way he does when Enjolras is shouting abuse at him.

"I'll come if you allow it," Grantaire insists, "I'd rather be there and know what's happening."

Enjolras doesn't allow it. But he doesn't forbid it either, since it is not, in fact, _his_ demonstration, and everyone who wants to (for whatever reasons) is free to attend.

And so Grantaire turns up. He's late, and as passive as the near-violent demonstration allows him to be, and he reeks of alcohol, but he's there nonetheless, watching Enjolras from a safe distance. It is unnerving.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is probably ridiculously inaccurate. I've never been to a protest, and I've never been arrested. Plus I don't live in France so no idea how things work there either. If you see anything that's wrong enough to annoy you, please tell me and I'll see how I can make it better.

Most protests, Enjolras has come to realise, are ridiculously badly prepared. Their planning hasn’t been much better, but it’s enough to hijack the ongoing anti gay marriage demonstration. They join the protest with their signs turned to point downward and without much fuss. Enjolras catches up with the chanting man at the front and asks, “may I?”

The elderly man gives up the microphone without a second thought. Enjolras has that effect on people, and he’s always used it, shamelessly.

He puts a bit of distance between himself and the man and, turning to face the crowd but keeping up pace, walking backwards, he says into the microphone, “Ladies and Gentlemen!” He pauses.

“Trans and genderqueer folks!” he adds, causing the first few confused glances. “And, of course, my dear zealots! Always a pleasure.” People rush forward, trying to snatch away the microphone. He breaks into a run, criss-crossing the street. “As you can see, we have infiltrated your demonstration,” he says. “Funny how you didn’t notice. It’s almost like we’re just people too.” There’s a shout of indignation, streaked with a few scattered cheers. Signs are turned right side up. Someone catches hold of the microphone, and Enjolras lets go of it, slipping away. It’s not like he needs it, now. The protest has come alive; flags are being produced and waved around. Enjolras can hear Bahorel shout something obscene that will go well with his sign.

Grantaire is the only one he can see, though, and he steadily edges closer when the cops start appearing. He’s been keeping to himself; everyone else is in groups of two, scattered in the protest, but Grantaire has come to the very front to keep an eye on him. He looks wary, people looking him up and down as if they’re just waiting for him to come out and admit that he belongs to Enjolras.

For a few minutes, it’s _brilliant_ , they’ve got the benefit of surprise, and everyone else is pretty much just staring at them as they go wild. The others may have the microphone, but they’re not using it. A few people join them, even, singing along. Enjolras gets a glimpse of Courfeyrac linking arms with a stranger.

But then the police are drawing closer, and Enjolras refuses to leave his spot right at the front, which of course makes him an easy target. He tries to slink away, but they’re trained for this sort of thing, and Enjolras has never had much practise sneaking away.

The moment Enjolras realises that there’s nothing to be done about it and he’s going to be arrested, the moment he stands tall and proud and defenceless in a tightening circle of uniformed, unifaced policemen, is the moment Grantaire chooses to punch a cop.

It’s not a punch thrown out of anger; it’s a controlled movement of the arm: it looks like a blow you’d expect to see in an exhibition fight.

*

When they’re mostly left alone, cable-tied to a fence, somewhat off the scene, Enjolras turns to Grantaire and asks, “What was that about, then?”

“Thought you could use the company.” Grantaire shrugs one shoulder. “If you don’t mind.”

“I really don’t,” Enjolras says, with a smile. “Black eye’s going to look got on that bigot.”

*

When the policeman who’d cable-tied Enjolras turns up to check on them, Grantaire suddenly asks: “Can I steal a kiss?”

Enjolras doesn’t know what this is about, but Grantaire is probably trying to prove a point, so he nods, and Grantaire smashes their mouths together, going for tongue immediately. Their teeth clash painfully, and Enjolras has to fight not to recoil, but Grantaire doesn’t seem to care, compensating the limited use of hands with extra tongue.

This has nothing to do with the languid, slow kisses they share when they’re on their own; this is obscene, it’s filthy, and it sure as hell disgusts the policeman.

It’s Grantaire’s way of telling the world that he’ll stop at nothing, that they belong to each other in not entirely-discussed ways, and that anyone who dares touch Enjolras will have to suffer, and be it only by disgust.

Enjolras lets him have it, plays his part until the cop tears them apart, snapping at them to keep their filthy business private. Enjolras hears a faint clicking noise he thinks he recognises, but doesn’t look for the source until the cop leaves again.

When he does turn around, Enjolras spots Jehan with a camera, smiling a grim smile in response to his terse nod, and Enjolras feels an idea starting to uncoil in his head.

 _It could be something,_ he thinks. _It could stir something._ Photographs of tied up people at a demonstration are infuriating as it is, but if you could just add some emotion into it, that would multiply its effect – _People only care about really fucked up or romantic things happening._ This would be both – and if Enjolras can play innocent for the cause, he can damn well play enamoured. It’s not going to be difficult anyway.

“Hey,” he says, and Grantaire looks over. Enjolras nods his chin in the direction where Jehan is standing, waving and lifting the camera.

“And one for me?” he asks, meaning: _and one for the cause?_

Grantaire leans in, and Enjolras captures his lips, eyelids fluttering shut. He keeps the kiss chaste and light, and it turns out he doesn’t have to act at all, allowing the fondness and affection and contentment he’s been hiding away to surface and wash over him, until he hears the familiar _click_ of the camera.

Something clicks into place. _Oh,_ he thinks, leaning back out of Grantaire’s space. He feels like he’s on the brink of a revelation, but _this is not the time_ because Jehan is rushing towards them and the cops could come back any moment and they really can’t afford to have him arrested, Christ.

“I’ve got a knife,” Jehan offers when he reaches them, brushing hair out of his eyes. His cheeks are flushed, and he’s grinning, now.

“They know my name anyway,” Enjolras says. “They’ll just make more of a fuss if I get away now. You should cut him loose, though,” he adds, nodding in Grantaire’s direction. “You punched an officer; they’ll jail you for that if you give them the chance.”

Jehan does as he’s told before Grantaire can protest, and even succeeds in making him leave with him by threatening to stay with them otherwise. Grantaire presses a brief kiss to the corner of Enjolras’ mouth, and Enjolras finds himself smiling as they flee the scene.

*

“Where’s your friend?” the officer asks when he comes back to collect them and finds only Enjolras.

“Friend?” Enjolras asks back. He’s in a ridiculously good mood for someone who’s facing the man who has been pulling his hair a few minutes ago and will probably never get called out on it.

“Boyfriend. Whatever,” the cop amends.

“I’ve never seen him before,” Enjolras says, smoothly. “His friend came and cut him loose, and they ran away. Don’t you think if he was the love of my life I would have been gone as well?”

They make him compose an e-fit of said friend, and Enjolras manages to keep a completely straight face while doing his best to assemble a David Tennant lookalike as a silent Hommage to Jehan, who is the biggest Doctor Who fan the world has ever seen.

By the time Combeferre arrives to bail him out, he’s bored to the bones and has taken to measuring the time it takes for the cops to avert their gaze when glared at. (Black eye is winning.)

Combeferre looks a bit rumpled, but otherwise fine, and so are the others, he assures Enjolras as soon as they’ve left the officers behind.

“I’ll take you to the Musain if you don’t mind,” he adds. “We’re all meeting up there, Jehan wanted to show us the photos.”

Enjolras doesn’t mind.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is it, the last chapter! I MIGHT add an epilogue later, but probably not. Hope the ending wasn't too abrupt.

The general mood in the Musain’s back room is remarkably elated for the fact that their protest didn’t even last fifteen minutes.

Grantaire flings himself into Enjolras’ arms as if they hadn’t been apart for all of three hours. Enjolras humours him, holding him tight for a few seconds before sitting down in front of Jehan’s laptop where he’s going through the photographs he took at the protest.

They’re all pretty good, little splotches of colour appearing in a mass of grey and white. He’s captured some of their signs’ captions next to the ones of their opponents, making them look dull and unimaginative.

Jehan clicks through them with remarkable speed, lingering only on a few good ones that have the whole room cheer, until he reaches the last ones.

The first picture is of them being torn apart, the helmeted policeman with one hand fisted in Enjolras' hair and the other hand on Grantaire's shoulder, who is facing away from the camera. Enjolras' expression is pained; his eyes shut tight, teeth clenched.

Grantaire’s fingers sneak into Enjolras’ hair and tangle there as if to erase the cop’s grip from his memory and replace it with his own, softer caress.

The second picture is a stark contrast in its peacefulness.

Grantaire's face is obscured from view partly by his curls and partly by Enjolras, who has his eyes closed yet again, an ardent expression on his face that Enjolras has never seen it wear before. Not in the mirror, nor on photographs or video tapes.

He remembers the moment of revelation, stopped short by Jehan’s arrival. He relives it, and goes through with it to the end this time.

Grantaire stares at the picture for a moment, his lips parting as if to say something, and then snapping shut.

"Christ, you're good at this," he croaks finally. "Sorry if I sound like a broken record, but you're beautiful. You should take up acting; they'd love you to pieces."

"I wasn't acting," Enjolras says, making Grantaire blanch for the second time in as many days. "I love you," he adds for good measure, and there's no reason for his stomach to turn like it does at the sight of Grantaire's knuckles going white around the edge of the desk.

"You can't say that," Grantaire says, and it's more a question than anything else, "you _promised_ -"

"You know what I promised," Enjolras interrupts him, low. He becomes vaguely aware of everyone around them staring and gets up, offering Grantaire a hand. "Let's take this somewhere else," he says, which of course makes Bahorel whistle and everyone else laugh. Enjolras rolls his eyes at them, and proceeds to drag Grantaire out of the door to the tiny backyard, where he slumps against a wall next to a trash can.

He spends a bit of time simply breathing, until Enjolras touches his wrist and his eyes snap back up to his face.

"You're sure," he says, disbelieving.

Enjolras nods.

 _"Why?"_ Grantaire asks, his voice coming out high-pitched and strained, and then: "No, scratch that. So you weren't acting. Show me." He sounds desperate now in the best possible way, and it takes Enjolras less than no effort at all to angle his affection towards him in form of a smile, to strip away layers of indifference and show a softer shade of what Grantaire sometimes tries to water down with broad smiles and loud rants and a bottle of wine so that it won't show too much. (It always does.)

And if he doesn't love Grantaire with the desperation and force that he deserves, so what? Love isn't supposed to be hurtful, anyway.

"You weren't," Grantaire breathes, and pushes himself off the wall, hands fisting in Enjolras' shirt and drawing him close. The way he licks into his mouth would be obscene if it weren't for the look of pure blissed-out joy on his face - no, actually, it's still obscene, but Enjolras is more than happy to provide the playground for impromptu filthy making-out-sessions in semi-public places.

"Let's go home," Grantaire says, breathless and delighted, and for a second, Enjolras is tempted to actually just let the others handle everything from here. He's never seen Grantaire this happy before.

"As soon as we've figured out what to do with the pictures," he promises after a second’s hesitation.

Grantaire huffs a laugh. "Figures," he says, but tags along happily enough.

They're greeted with raised eyebrows and suppressed giggles, but everyone is too excited about the article to make sure it’s mortifying. Jehan has spent their minutes of absence outlining the structure and giving a few key words.

"So you're fine with us uploading these on my blog," Jehan asks Grantaire, pointing to where he has inverted the order of the photographs, making it look like the policeman is breaking up a perfectly innocent kiss.

"I'm absolutely fine with that," Grantaire agrees. "I most certainly do not protest. You could print these out as posters and I would be happy to plaster the whole of Paris with them. It's not like you can actually see my face," he adds, and then, quickly, "which is probably for the better."

Enjolras nods along pensively, causing Grantaire to look slightly less happy for a second, until Courfeyrac jumps in, saying: "It's not like we'd want the police to have a photograph of your face. You did punch a cop and then disappear, right?"

And then, of course, they stay until Jehan is done with the article and has published it, and then they stay until the first reactions come in, and then they stay a while longer to celebrate, just for the hell of it. Grantaire doesn't seem to mind, throwing a casual arm around Enjolras' shoulder, or talking to Jehan in a corner, beer in hand, or draping himself across Enjolras' lap with a lazy smile.

But when they do come home, he doesn't waste a second before doing his best to kiss Enjolras senseless. Enjolras thinks, briefly, that this must be what happiness feels like, before he gives up every attempt at thinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some last words about Enjolras and Grantaire: yes, their relationship is still unbalanced, and will probably stay that way. But they'll figure it out between the two of them. To be honest, I don't know a lot of real life relationships where both partners are equally in love with each other. Also, this story was from Enjolras' point of view - he doesn't even realise some of the problems Grantaire is dealing with throughout this story, but that doesn't mean they're not there. I'm considering writing more chapters from Grantaire's point of view and uploading them at my collection of stray drabbles aka First Sights. 
> 
> Thank you all for your support and comments and asks (you can visit me at delabaisse.tumblr.com) and everything, you've all been wonderful and it was a delight writing for you!


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